🚀 Pipeline Results Report

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you.But habits form in quiet rooms, where echoes bounce and fade,Where whispers of the honest self are easily unmade.My own voice clamours loud within, a constant, buzzing drone,Drowning the subtle murmurings of truths I've never known.I strain to hear you past the noise, past fear and old deceit,Past stories polished smooth by time, self-serving and complete.You rustle like dry leaves outside, a wind I cannot name;You pulse within the silent pause, a soft, persistent flame.To listen is to stand quite still, to let the chatter cease,To welcome awkward silences that offer no releaseFrom what I'd rather not admit, the sharp, unwelcome stingOf seeing clearly, deep within, what reckoning might bring.So build the habit, day by day, of turning down the soundOf easy answers, practiced roles, on comfortable ground.Let stillness be the fertile soil where understanding grows,Where roots of honesty take hold, and real conviction shows.Then, Truth, when listening shapes the soul, when doubt begins to clear,Perhaps this voice, now quieted, will speak you without fear.

Truth, you whisper in the wind's low moan,A constant guest before my door.I hear your knock, a muted tone,But hesitate, unsure."If I am in the habit," said I,"Of lending ear to your clear call,Then shall I speak you, strong and high,And break the shadowed wall."But habits falter, ears grow cold,Distracted by the noise within.Your patient story, brave and old,Gets drowned by fear and din.I chase you down the twisting lane,Demand your form, distinct and bright,Yet flinch away from piercing pain,Preferring dimmer light.You wait, not storming, near yet far,A silent pressure, deep and vast.Until that moment, sudden, sharp,When listening holds me fast.Then, only then, the words take flight,No longer mine, but yours to own,When stillness conquers noise and night,And truth at last is known.

Truth, I’d shape your name, a solid sound,But first, I must still the noise around.My own voice clamors, loud and bright,A shield against your piercing light.I fill the silence, dense and deep,With promises I cannot keep,With answers formed before you call,Pretending I have heard it all.But you are patient, soft and low,A murmur only listeners know.You brush the window, tap the glass,A quiet force that comes to pass.So let me hush. Let stillness grow.Let practiced ears begin to knowThe rustle where your whispers startWithin the chambers of the heart.This habit forms: to pause, attend,To hear before I dare pretendTo speak you clearly, strong and free.First, Truth, you must speak into me.

He looks at me with a madman's eyes -Wild, unblinking, stripped of disguise.A tempest brews where reason dies,Reflecting fractured, clouded skies.No anchor holds that frantic gaze,It burns through dusk and hazy haze.A silent, terrifying blazeThat charts forgotten, twisted ways.I see the frantic, spinning wheel,The truths no sane mind can reveal.A shattered lens on what is real,A wound that time cannot conceal.His stare holds worlds I cannot name,A flickering, consuming flame.It whispers secrets, hints of blame,A terrifying, endless game.That look, a vortex deep and stark,Leaves shadows lengthening in the dark.A chilling, unforgettable mark,Where sanity has left its park.

He looks at me with a madman's eyes -Unblinking pools, devoid of skies.A hollow moon where reason dies,Reflecting only dead stars' lies.No warmth resides in that cold stare,Just fractured thoughts beyond repair.A chilling void beyond compare,A ghost trapped in an empty lair.His gaze is glass, impossibly cracked,Where sanity was viciously sacked.A primal, ancient truth unpacked,A fragile, inner world ransacked.It holds no rage, no flickering flame,Just silent dread without a name.A universe devoid of aim,From which no understanding came.That look invades, a spectral trace,Leaving cold fingers on my face.A bleak and alien, frozen space -Sanity's final hiding place.

He looks at me with a madman's eyes -  Sharp shards of glass, no soft disguise.  No soul peers out, no truth, no lies,  Just hollow voids, stripped of the skies.  A fevered moon in pupils wide,  Where broken dreams and chaos hide.  No human warmth, no gentle tide,  Just raw-edged shadows locked inside.  That stare is ice, a jagged crack,  Where logic snapped and won’t come back.  A silent, endless, blackened track—  A mind adrift, blown off the map.  No rage, no plea, no flicker there,  Just vacant dread, a frozen prayer.  It pins me still with primal glare—  The haunting weight of pure despair.

{'response': "Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,\nA vow whispered to the wind that strips illusions bare.\nFirst I must learn the quiet, the patient art of heeding\nYour voice beneath the clamor, beyond the shallow glare.\nFor you dwell not in shouting crowds nor grand proclamations,\nBut in the rustle of leaves where ancient oaks stand guard,\nIn the tremor of a hand that reaches without pretense,\nIn the silent space between what's spoken and what's barred.\n\nHow dare I shape your name with untrained tongue and reckless haste?\nLike learning constellations before naming stars at night,\nI'll sit with dawn's first blush and twilight's muted grace,\nAttuning breath and spirit to echoes born of light.\nUntil my ears decipher your rhythm in rain's fall,\nMy voice remains a vessel waiting to be filled.\nFor only when I've listened through chaos, fear, and all,\nCan truth flow through me freely - a promise to fulfill.", 'probability': 1.0}

{'response': "Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,\nBut habits grow like vines, twisting through my days.\nFirst I must carve silence where noise used to dwell,\nPolish the inner ear until it gleams like moonlit ponds.\nYour voice arrives not in thunderclaps or sermons,\nBut through cracks in routine—the way steam rises\nFrom morning teacups, how frost paints windows\nWith ghostly cartography. I practice stillness,\nLetting your syllables pool in my cupped palms\nBefore they spill into speech. For truth demands\nNot just utterance, but the fertile hush between\nHeartbeats where roots drink deep. I'm learning\nTo hear your footsteps in rainfall's steady rhythm,\nYour whisper in the rustle of turning pages.\nOnly when listening becomes my second skin,\nWoven through dawns and midnights alike,\nWill my tongue become a faithful mirror\nReflecting your unadorned face.", 'probability': 1.0}

{'response': "Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,\nThough your voice often comes like winter through my bones,\nA shivering stream that carves through stone.\nI've built fortresses of comfortable lies -\nWarm tapestries that blur my eyes -\nWhile your stark shape waited beyond the gate.\nWhen did I last pause to truly hear?\nNot the thunderous truths that bring men fear,\nBut the quiet whisper when dawn's first light appears.\n\nTo listen is to stand bare before the gale,\nTo feel the fracture where old foundations fail.\nYet in that breaking, space for roots remains -\nYour voice, the rain upon drought-cracked plains.\nIf I cultivate silence like fertile ground,\nIf I stop drowning your cadence in sound,\nThen speech becomes not weapon, but seed:\nA living truth in thought and deed.\nLet my ears become attuned, awake,\nThat my tongue may give what silence takes.", 'probability': 1.0}

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
For only when silence becomes my native tongue
Do your sharp edges soften into melody.
I've built castles in my ears with cotton-wool walls,
Where flattery's sweet hum drowned your staccato beat.
But now at dawn, I scrape the wax away—
Let your discordant chimes fracture my sleep,
Let your inconvenient echoes haunt my halls.
Teach me the courage of unvarnished days,
The raw arithmetic of sun on stone,
The way rain names each leaf without disguise.
Only when I cease dressing your face in gauze,
When my breath stills to catch your whispered rage,
Will my tongue unlearn its silvered camouflage
And birth your jagged light in honest phrase.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
A vow whispered in dawn's first light.
For years I chased your shadow through deceit,
My ears clogged with convenient lies.
Then silence came - a desert's gift - 
Where scorpions of falsehood fled the heat.
I learned to hear your voice in rainfall's sigh,
In winter branches scraping moonlit skies.
Now daily I attend your stern rebuke:
When ego shouts, I mute its hollow cry;
When fear suggests convenient falsehoods,
I turn instead to where your truths reside
In honest tears on lovers' cheeks,
In children's questions raw and deep.
This practice grows: a gardener's patient hand
Tending the soil where understanding sleeps.
Speak through me now, clear fountain in the waste,
My tongue your channel, doubt erased.

Truth! I shall speak you if I am in habit of listening to you,
For your voice is not a hammer but a chisel carving stone.
I must quiet the clamor of my certainty,
Still the restless tide of my own convictions,
To hear your whisper in the hollows of doubt.
Only when I cease demanding your obedience
To my preconceptions and my fears,
Only when I let silence hold space
For your unsettling clarity,
Can my tongue shape your name without distortion.
For you are not a weapon to be wielded,
But a compass found in stillness,
A map revealed when the noise of self subsides.
So I cultivate the habit of deep attention,
The patient ear turned toward the subtle pulse
Beneath the world's loud insistence,
That I might one day speak you clean,
Unburdened by my own deafness.

For the first time in my life, the air didn't taste of dust or yesterday's rain, but of possibility, sharp as citron peel. I watched sunlight fracture on the kitchen window, painting tiger stripes on the worn linoleum, and understood: this is how revelation arrives - not with fanfare, but with the quiet click of a latch finally giving way. My hands, perpetually clenched like wary mollusks, unfolded. Outside, the magnolia tree I'd ignored for decades unfurled its vulgar pink blossoms, shameless and glorious. A neighbor waved, genuine warmth crinkling his eyes, not the usual curt nod. Even the persistent ache in my knee, my faithful companion through damp winters, softened its grumble. Did the world shift, or did my bones finally align to perceive its gentle tilt? I stirred honey into bitter tea, felt the viscous gold dissolve, sweetness spreading slow and thick across my tongue. This fragile, unearned grace settled on my shoulders, light as dandelion fluff. The relentless internal radio, forever replaying dirges of regret and what-ifs, finally found a new station, crackling with static and birdsong. I breathed in, deep, and the sky rushed down to meet me.

For the first time in my life,
The stars didn't blink but winked conspiratorially
As asphalt breathed steam like sleeping dragons.
My shadow detached itself from my heels,
Danced a jig with telephone wires while
Concrete blossoms pushed through sidewalk cracks.
The moon dripped liquid silver into my palms,
Cool baptism erasing years of calloused touch.
Suddenly I understood spiderwebs as harps
And pigeons' coos as forgotten symphonies.
Rust on fire escapes glowed like ancient amber,
Preserving eons in orange hieroglyphs.
Even gravity grew courteous -
My footsteps lifted into weightless pirouettes
As rain fell upward to kiss streetlights.
Time unraveled its tight coil,
Revealing childhood marbles in gutter currents.
I tasted colors: violet like crushed grapes,
Indigo like midnight's secret name.
The city became a velvet-lined jewelry box
Where every brick pulsed with fossilized heartbeats,
And I, the sudden curator of miracles.
For the first time,
My bones sang with the tectonic hymn
Of a world rewoven by wonder.